


What I Do to You

by gracerene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Trainee Draco Malfoy, Auror Trainee Harry Potter, Auror Training, Bottom Harry Potter, Christmas, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Floor Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Poor Life Choices, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Present Tense, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Semi-Public Sex, Sparring, Top Draco Malfoy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/pseuds/gracerene
Summary: These days, apathy fogs Harry's mind. Malfoy's the only one who makes Harry feel anything at all. Harry doesn't really care that the feelings aren't good ones. He deserves it.





	What I Do to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



> Happy half-birthday writcraft! You are one of my very favourite people and I cannot tell you how glad I am to have had the chance to get to know you over the past several years. You are so funny, kind, talented, wicked smart, and a truly wonderful friend. As a token of my sincere affection, I thought I'd gift you this little fucked-up bit of angst, because what better way to show somebody you care than to hurt the characters we both adore? Apparently I'm incapable of gifting somebody a normal fic, but given your love of darker themes, I really hope this hits the spot! Thank you for being an amazing human being and for always being around when I need a friend. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much to the brilliant [firethesound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound) for reacting with enthusiastic grabby hands when I sent her the warnings for this fic and ~~shamelessly begged~~ politely asked if she'd be willing to beta it for me. And thank you as well to the equally brilliant [birdsofshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore) for brit-picking and flailing. ♥
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by Season 6 Buffy and her relationship with Spike. As such, the title for this fic is inspired by the below dialogue:
>
>> **Spike:** Do you even like me?  
>  **Buffy:** Sometimes.  
>  **Spike:** But you like what I do to you.  
>  _[Spike holds up a pair of handcuffs.]_  
>  **Spike:** Do you trust me?  
>  **Buffy:** Never.

Harry's not quite sure how it all got started.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. He's pretty sure it all comes back to the war and that death that wasn't permanent. Everything seems to come back to that moment these days, to the choice he made to return and fight. It's not that he regrets it, not exactly. Harry knows it was necessary, that when it came down to going back and saving the people that he loves, it was hardly even a choice at all. That doesn't stop him from remembering that platform though, the quiet there, the sense of calm and peacefulness. He thinks of it late at night when yet another nightmare rips him from his restless sleep. He thinks of it during Auror training when he's worn out and exhausted as he goes through the motions memorising spells meant to capture and detain. He thinks of it when he walks through Diagon, suffocated by the heavy crush of worshipful witches and wizards that make his head spin and his pulse rocket.

Nothing is as easy as he thought it would be.

He thought the end of the war would bring a sense of closure and peace, that he'd finally be able to move on with his life and start _living._ Instead, all he feels is tired, a bone-deep weariness that colours every action, poisoning his thoughts and tinting the world in grey. He feels as if he's constantly surrounded by people, and he hates it, hates _them,_ hates how they always want something from him, even if it's just an encouraging smile from Harry Potter himself. Witches and wizards vie for his attention, pretending sincerity when what they really want is intrigue and gossip that they can sell to the papers for their fifteen minutes of fame. Everywhere he goes he's watched, and it's infuriating. The effort it takes to constantly maintain his mask is exhausting, a steady drain on his dwindling energy supply. His friends and family are almost worse than the sycophantic fans with the way they hover, all beaming love and earnest worry. They want so desperately for him to be okay, and their smothering concern is another burden on his shoulders. 

He's not okay. He's not sure he'll ever be okay.

There's a resentment there that bubbles deep inside him, an insidious voice that's keen to remind him of what he had to give up for them, for his friends, for all of wizarding Britain. He wishes he didn't know what it was like on the other side, that he wasn't still haunted by the memory of the tranquility he can find in death. Sometimes, on the blackest nights, he wishes he hadn't needed to come back at all, wonders why _he_ was chosen to return when so many others did not. How many brave witches and wizards lost their lives for good that very same night? How many innocent people died because Harry couldn't save them? Why is Harry still here when others more deserving are not?

Surprisingly enough, one of the only times Harry doesn't feel like screaming is when he's around Malfoy, who for some reason had been allowed to join the Auror training programme. Malfoy is just as awful as ever. He's marginally less bigoted, and he certainly doesn't spout off his pure-blood supremacy rhetoric the way he did back at Hogwarts, but he's far from completely reformed. He's made no secret of the fact that his motives for joining the Aurors are less than noble, figuring that it'll be the fastest way for him to help restore the Malfoy name. Malfoy still sneers and snaps, still makes his disdain for Harry and his supposed heroism clear as day. 

Harry loves it.

Malfoy may be an wanker, but he's honest about it, which is more than Harry can say about the two-faced witches and wizards who spend their days kissing Harry's arse. Something about Malfoy's shameless antagonism reminds Harry of simpler times, times before the memory of death called to him like a siren's song. He doesn't treat Harry with kid gloves or walk on eggshells around him as if he's afraid he might trigger some kind of PTSD episode like all of Harry's friends do. He doesn't treat Harry with deference or respect or even neutral indifference, despite the fact that his hostility towards the _Saviour_ is hardly winning him any points with the rest of the Auror trainees. Harry likes that Malfoy doesn't fall in line, likes that when Malfoy goads him, he's allowed to get angry right back and nobody bats an eyelash. He likes the thought that when Malfoy looks at him, he doesn't see a hero who can do no wrong.

It's late Wednesday night and once again Harry's torn from sleep by a brutal nightmare that leaves him shivering and shaking, his throat raw from his screams. His body thrums with helpless anger and terror threaded through with spiky adrenaline, and Harry knows he won't be falling asleep again tonight. Lately, he's been sneaking into the Auror gym during these restless nights, burning off the excess energy with running and weights until he's exhausted enough to head back home for an hour or two of sleep.

Harry's practically bouncing on his toes by the time he makes it through the silent Ministry corridors to the Auror gymnasium. He's not paying much attention, too caught up in his head, so he doesn't register the steady thump-thump of fists hitting a punching bag until he's already halfway across the room. Harry's never run into anybody else before during his midnight workouts, and his entire body tenses as he takes in the familiar form attacking the punching bag like it's insulted his mother. Knowing the kind of bizarre things Harry's encountered since becoming a wizard, it very well might have. Not that Harry would blame the punching bag—she may have technically saved his life, but Narcissa Malfoy's still a real piece of work.

"Potter," Malfoy spits as he steps back from the swaying bag, reaching a hand out to steady it as he glares at Harry. "Following me, are you?"

Harry crosses his arms contemptuously. "You're not that interesting, Malfoy. I know this may come as a shock to you, but most things in the world don't _actually_ revolve around you."

Malfoy's eyes glitter in the bright overhead lights, as beautiful and deadly as a diamond-edged knife. "Oh, _certainly_ not. I can't imagine our dear Saviour would _ever_ stoop so low as to stalk little old me." He pauses dramatically. "Sixth year being an exception, of course."

"Good thing you're not trying to let a bunch of Death Eaters into the Ministry like you were at Hogwarts then, isn't it," Harry says, the faux lightness of his tone not nearly enough to cover the bite of his words. It still burns a little, how his friends so easily dismissed his concerns that year, scoffing at his supposed obsession that turned out to be fully justified. 

Malfoy lips grow thin as he presses them together angrily. "You know, Potter. Perhaps your arrival here is a good thing."

"Why? You miss me, Malfoy?"

"Every night," Malfoy says sweetly, his smile sharper than a Severing Charm. "My partner here—" He gestures at the punching bag, "—leaves something to be desired. I find sparring to be so much more… satisfying when my opponent can fight back."

"How macabre." Anticipation begins to hum through Harry. "Never took you for a masochist."

"Oh no," Malfoy replies with a sad shake of his head. "Surely I'd be a sadist."

Harry smirks meanly, already looking forward to a chance to punch Malfoy square in his pointy nose. "Nah. Can't even cast a proper _Cruciatus_ without crying about it, can you?"

Malfoy's eyes flash with fury. "Is that supposed to be a bad thing?" he asks tightly. "They're _unforgivable_ after all. Though I do recall the Wizengamot pardoning _your_ transgressions, so perhaps not so unforgivable after all."

It's one of Harry's sore spots, the way the Wizengamot fell all over itself to excuse every wrong Harry had done while condemning so many others. He actually agrees with Malfoy in principle—has spent many a night knowing that he deserves to suffer for what he did and what he wasn't able to do—but now, with Malfoy smirking at him with that unbelievable moral superiority, he's filled with furious indignation. "Well," he says acidly. "I guess that's just one of the perks that comes along with stopping a sociopath from committing genocide."

Malfoy's lip curls. "If only we could all be so noble."

Harry's far from noble, but he's done with talking. He wants to punch something. Preferably Malfoy. "You want to fight or what? I didn't come here to chat."

"I'm ready when you are, Potter." 

Malfoy slips into fighting stance and Harry instinctively mirrors him, his heart racing. He feels more alive right now than he has in weeks, all his pent up rage and frustration rising up to the surface as he circles Malfoy's lithe body. Without an instructor or their fellow trainees here monitoring their every move, neither of them have to hold back. He knows half their cohort wouldn't hesitate to sell a story to the _Prophet_ if they saw even a hint of Harry losing control, but strangely Harry doesn't think Malfoy is one of them. It's not like there isn't precedent for it, what with Malfoy's _interviews_ with Skeeter back at Hogwarts, but things are different now. Harry has a feeling Malfoy needs this fucked-up connection just as much as Harry, that he's clinging to this bizarre sense of normalcy just as tightly.

As predicted, neither of them pull their punches. Harry manages a kick to Malfoy's ribs that's sure to leave a nasty bruise, and Malfoy lands an uppercut on Harry's jaw in turn that has him spitting blood. It's fast and brutal, almost cathartic, the way Harry takes out the frustration he feels with his entire goddamned life on Malfoy's body. Malfoy gives just as good as he gets, and some screwed-up part of Harry's brain enjoys it, likes the sharp bite of pain that slices through the fog of apathy that's been wrapped around him like an impenetrable blanket. 

When Malfoy pins him to the mat, he likes that too, likes the thrill that shoots through his stomach as Malfoy's knees pin his legs down, his hands pressing Harry's wrists to the floor so hard he can feel the bones grinding together. Malfoy's eyes are wild and triumphant, and Harry wonders what he'll do now that he's got Harry at his mercy. The thought shouldn't excite and intrigue him, but it does. His body is still flush with adrenaline, the fight ramping him up instead of exhausting him. He's not ready to stop grappling, not ready to lose this connection. The back of his mind buzzes with possibility as he tries to find a weakness in Malfoy's hold. 

Malfoy leans down, his breath hot and strangely sweet as it puffs across Harry's nose and mouth. Harry shivers, his belly tightens, and with a start, he realises he's hard. He barely has time to process that information before Malfoy's mouth descends, taking his lips in a savage kiss. It hurts, his lip bruised and swollen from Malfoy's earlier hit, but Harry likes it, likes the edge of discomfort the comes with the shocking pleasure of Malfoy kissing him like he wants to devour Harry whole. This kiss is like nothing Harry's ever experienced, so very different from the tender kisses he shared with Ginny what feels like half a lifetime ago now. This has nothing of love and affection, just hungry need that makes Harry's blood boil. 

When Malfoy pulls at his hips and roughly turns Harry onto his front, he goes without protest, bracing his knees on the floor and tilting his hips so Malfoy can more easily tug down his joggers and pants. Malfoy summons his wand, and Harry relishes the flicker of fear in his stomach, wondering what Malfoy will do with it before he hears the murmur of a lubrication spell. The finger that presses the slick inside him isn't gentle, and it only lingers long enough to ensure he's properly coated before he's empty and Malfoy's cock is pressing against his arsehole. Harry's never done this before, never gone any further than a couple of his own fingers stuck up his bum, and he should probably want something softer and more meaningful for his first time, but all he can think as Malfoy fucks his way inside is that this is exactly what he needs, exactly what he _deserves_. 

It hurts, a kind of bone-deep burn as Malfoy's dick makes room for itself inside Harry's body. He wonders if Malfoy is as hung as he feels, or if it's just the fact that Harry's never taken a cock before that makes Malfoy feel like a monster. Harry's eyes prick with tears and he's half certain Malfoy's going to split him clear in two by the time Malfoy's hips press flush against the curve of Harry's arse, and that's it, he's finally all the way inside. They stay there like that for a long moment, the room silent save for their gruff panting breaths and the over-loud thud of Harry's racing heart.

The pain starts to settle and fade, and Harry only has a moment to miss it before Malfoy's easing out and slamming back in, sending a cascade of pleasure and discomfort skittering across Harry's skin. He does it again and again, rutting into Harry like a beast, chasing his pleasure while Harry claws at the mat, completely overwhelmed. It's intense, the sensation of Malfoy's cock moving inside him, agony and bliss in equal measure. It's the most Harry's felt in months, a flood of feeling and sensation that leaves Harry dazed and dizzy. 

It's well past midnight, but they're still fucking right out in the open, perfectly visible if any other enterprising Aurors decided to get their late-night workout on. It sends a dirty thrill through Harry, the thought of somebody else seeing this, wondering what they might think to see him spread out on the floor, taking Draco Malfoy's cock like a whore. Some self-destructive part of him wants that to happen, wants to tear down the pedestal the wizarding world's put him on with his bare hands, wants to burn every last bridge until there's nothing left. The more rational side of him knows that would be a disaster, but the rational part of him isn't getting much of a say right now, not when he's pushing back into Malfoy's thrusts, growling at Malfoy to fuck him harder, to make it _hurt._

Malfoy grinds in deep and comes with a curse, his fingers digging into Harry's hips so hard there are bound to be more bruises to add to Harry's collection. Harry wiggles his own hand beneath his body and yanks at his leaking cock. It only takes him a few pulls before he's coming as well, spilling all over the floor. 

He collapses, afterwards, uncaring of the mess smearing across his stomach. The exhaustion that evaded him after their sparring session hits him now, fatigue wearing away the post-sex endorphins. Malfoy pulls out gracelessly, murmuring a Cleaning Charm that doesn't extend to Harry. He can feel Malfoy's come sliding out of his arsehole, smearing across his thighs. Harry can only imagine how fucked out and debauched he looks. The thought fills him with a bizarre mixture of satisfaction and humiliation.

He hears Malfoy exit the gym without a word, leaving Harry there to stew in come and shame. Harry knows what just happened was a mistake. Malfoy's a terrible person who's done terrible things. He doesn't care for Harry, doesn't even like him, and the feeling is entirely mutual. Harry's friends and the rest of the wizarding world would be horrified if they knew that Harry had stooped so low, that he'd spread his legs for an ex-Death Eater, one who's barely shown any contrition for his crimes. 

And yet….

Even the wrongness of the deed feels good in a perverse kind of way, like prodding at a fresh bruise. Everybody thinks Harry is so good, so noble, but they have no idea who he really is, the blood he has on his hands. He had a piece of Voldemort's soul _inside him_ for seventeen years, he's died, and sometimes he yearns for death again, wondering if maybe this time it will stick. He's sacrificed everything for the greater good, but it still wasn't enough. There was so much death, death he could have prevented if he was only faster, smarter, braver. Malfoy was right when he said Harry's crimes were all pardoned, excused as all part of the necessary war effort, as if Harry was somehow better than everyone else. He wasn't thinking of the greater good when he used the _Cruciatus_ on Amycus Carrow for insulting McGonagall, and yet that Unforgivable had been forgiven all the same.

These days, apathy fogs Harry's mind, but Malfoy makes him _feel_ , even if those feelings aren't good ones. Malfoy is anger and resentment, pain and excitement. He's release and punishment all in one. Harry knows he's dirty, tainted, and somehow Malfoy seems to be the only one to see it. 

Malfoy is exactly what Harry deserves.

* * *

The Firewhisky burns as it slides down Draco's throat and he relishes the warmth even as he makes a face at the taste. He's always hated whisky, much preferring a rich, full-bodied wine to the sharp bite of spirits. Full access to the Manor's wine cellars is just a house-elf away, but Draco sits on his sofa and stubbornly drinks the pungent whisky instead. It's been a long time since he's last reached for a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Something always holds him back, an insidiously venomous voice whispering that he doesn't deserve even that small measure of comfort. He grimaces, bracing himself before tossing back the last mouthful of amber liquid.

The old grandfather clock in the corner chimes ten as a parade of miniature shimmering Abraxans gallop out of the base, flying around the clock in familiar choreography before disappearing with a flourish as the last chime sounds. The clock is beyond ostentatious and far too large for the living room in his modest flat, but his mother _insisted_ he take it with him when he moved out, and it wasn't worth the argument to put his foot down. With how overbearing she's become in the months since the war, since she almost lost her _baby,_ Draco considers himself lucky he was able to escape from the Manor at all. She was never particularly effusive or demonstrative with her love when Draco was a child, and though he understands the reasons for her sudden shift in behaviour, he finds all that earnest emotion… unsettling.

He checks his watch before realising that the chiming clock has already told him the time. Potter should be here any minute. His jaw clenches, and he debates the merits of a second glass of that vile whisky. He's not in the mood to get up, so it's a good thing he's a wizard. Draco Summons the bottle, wincing when it zooms into his open palm with a loud _smack._ He's just warming himself up, he thinks bitterly. His session with Potter will leave his body aching afterwards, no doubt.

It's been two months since that night in the gymnasium. 

The whole thing was surreal, and Draco had been half-certain it was all just some fucked-up dream. But when he looked in the mirror the next morning and saw the stark bruises across his fair skin, he was forced to confront the truth. Draco wasn't sure what to think about it all, so he did what he _always_ did with unpleasant realities—shoved his feelings deep down inside where they wouldn't inconvenience him. Training to be an Auror and restore the Malfoy name was difficult enough without Potter complicating everything. 

Draco had committed to putting their entire liaison out of mind entirely, returning to the status quo as if he hadn't fucked Potter raw right in the middle of the Auror Training Centre. At first, it seemed as if Potter was on the same page. He responded to Draco's cutting barbs with his usual disdain, clearly doing his best to ignore Draco otherwise. Draco wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment that had flooded him at Potter's casual dismissal, but that emotion, too, was shoved deep inside. 

It wasn't until a week later that Draco realised Potter wasn't quite so keen to put what happened entirely behind them. The trainees spent the day out in the field running mission simulations until it was too dark to see and their instructor finally relented and sent them back to shower and head home. As he usually did, Draco lingered behind until he was certain the rest of the group had finished with their showers. He wasn't being cowardly, but _practical._ Naked and vulnerable around a dozen witches and wizards who hated his guts would hardly be a smart move on his part.

Apparently he wasn't the only person who lingered behind that day; Potter walked into the showers right as Draco was washing the shampoo out of his hair. Their eyes met, energy crackling between them as that familiar Potter-induced rage began to simmer beneath Draco's skin. This was _Draco's_ strategy, his opportunity to shower alone and not deal with all the idiots he would soon be calling colleagues. It was just like Potter to try and ruin even this simple ritual.

"Trying to avoid all your adoring fans?" Draco sneered, forcing himself to reach casually for his conditioner as if he hadn't a care in the world, like his every muscle wasn't tensed in preparation for a fight.

Potter's right eye twitched—Draco had clearly hit a nerve. "Go to hell, Malfoy."

"Poor little Saviour," Draco replied. "Can't even _shower_ without somebody asking for your autograph."

"Better an autograph than a hex," Potter spat, challenge in his eyes. "At least I don't have to worry about what might happen if I turn my back."

They continued to trade vicious insults until eventually Potter snapped, charging Draco like a deranged hippogriff. They'd grappled under the water, their soap-slick skin making it difficult to find purchase. Somehow, Potter managed to get him pinned to the wall, and Draco lifted his chin haughtily as he curled his lip, daring Potter to do his worst. Draco supposed he had, in a way, leaning in to kiss Draco with brutish force, their teeth clacking together clumsily.

At some point Draco shoved Potter to his knees, fucking his face desperately as Potter wanked himself off. Afterwards, it was Potter's turn to escape without a word, leaving Draco to stand under the now-cold spray of water, wondering what the fuck was going on.

It's been months now, and Draco's still not entirely sure. All he knows is that Harry seems to need something from Draco, and every couple of days he finds Draco and takes it. The sex is always rough and dirty and desperate, satisfying some fucked-up primal need inside of Draco. There's a wicked kind of pleasure in it, in knowing that it's Harry Potter who's spreading his legs for Draco, that he's giving it to the wizarding world's precious hero. Draco knows that this thing between them isn't good, isn't healthy, not for either of them, but it's not like Draco deserves any better. Potter certainly does, but whatever's going on in Potter's messed-up brain is hardly Draco's concern, even if a part of Draco finds it endlessly fascinating. Draco's got enough shit to deal with as it is.

The thing is, Draco's angry. He's always angry, so bloody furious that he barely has the energy to function with all the fathomless rage burning up his life-force like corrosive acid in his gut. He's sick of the hypocrisy of the Ministry, how the Aurors that were all too keen to round up Muggle-borns under Thicknesse's _Imperiused_ rule have the audacity to look at Draco like _he's_ the one who's scum. How many of the Ministry's self-important officials and pompous members of the Wizengamot cared enough about the plight of Muggles and half-bloods to raise a single finger when the Dark Lord's doctrine had infiltrated the government? Draco reckons three quarters of the Ministry's holier-than-thou employees are every bit the blood purists that the Malfoys were. They just didn't have the guts to pick a side before it was clear who the winners would be.

It burns, those superior disdainful looks cast his way from people who were always more than happy to accept a Malfoy bribe when it suited them. The sanctimony of it all sticks in his throat. How dare these insincere, self-righteous pillocks sit in judgement over _him._ He supposes it makes them feel better, in their small little minds, to content themselves that, no matter what bigotry lies in their hearts, at least they weren't _Marked._

Draco still not entirely convinced that wizards aren't innately superior to Muggles, but he can admit that perhaps all of his tightly-held childhood beliefs weren't entirely accurate. He's hardly going to go out and hug a Muggle, but he doesn't want to kill any of them either—he never did. Draco's not sure he'll ever be truly _reformed_ enough for the rest of the wizarding world though, and sometimes it's a hard potion to swallow, seeing how far he's fallen. He and his family used to be like royalty, and he relished the opportunity to accompany his father to the Ministry just to see the way witches and wizards would fall all over themselves to make things happen for the Malfoys. Now, he's treated like a pariah, worse than gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. 

He tells himself that's part of the beauty of this little arrangement with Potter, a chance to get a leg over both Potter and the wizarding world all at once. There isn't a more perfect symbol for this new _shining_ age of wizarding Britain than the perfect Saviour who saved them all from darkness. There's a callous kind of satisfaction in it, a quiet type of revenge, knowing how shocked and appalled they'd all be to know that their precious Golden Boy was taking it up the duff from one of those _awful_ Death Eaters.

If only it were truly that simple.

The issue is that no matter how hard he tries, he can't entirely distance himself from their couplings. It's so simple in the moment, when heat and passion overtake him, when nothing exists except the need to fuck Potter through the mattress and make him scream. After is the problem, when Draco's come and Potter's gone and all Draco has left is his shame and self-pity. Given his reputation, one would think it'd be easy for Draco to get his and move on with his day, that he should be content to fuck his old rival without attachment. But Draco was raised to equate sex with intimacy, and though he's very well aware that what's happening between him and Potter has nothing at all to do with those softer emotions, sometimes Draco finds himself desiring that things were different. It's not as if he's in love with the prat—though he can certainly admit Potter's a bit of all right—but sometimes when they're fucking, Draco wishes Potter's hands could ease up their bruising grip, that he could gentle his touch into something closer to affection.

That's just an errant fantasy though, and one Draco does his best not to indulge in. 

It's clear as day how much Potter hates himself for what they're doing, or maybe he just hates himself full stop, and that's the only thing allowing him to sink so low as to let Draco have him. Potter doesn't like him, doesn't want him for anything more than a disgraceful fuck, and Draco can't imagine that will ever change. How can it, given their differences, given all the things that Draco has done? The difference between Potter and all the other wizards that look down their nose at Draco is that Potter has actually earned that right. When Potter thinks he's better than Draco, it isn't a lie, it's a fact. Draco hates him for that almost as much as he hates the others for their hypocrisy. 

There's a darkness in Potter though, one that nobody else but Draco seems to see. He wonders if they're all truly that oblivious, or if Potter's just more honest with him. The thought of that shouldn't make him shiver, but Draco's always liked knowing things others don't. This thing with Potter is no different, though Draco knows he wouldn't keep coming back to Draco again and again if he wasn't hurting. Sometimes, afterwards, they'll both linger for a bit while the buzz of endorphins keeps the shame at bay. For those brief moments, it's almost as if they've called a truce, like they're… not friends, exactly, but something closer to equals. Potter talks sometimes, admits to things Draco doesn't think he's told anyone else, and for some unfathomable reason Draco finds himself doing the same. It never lasts long, though; the post-sex high always fades away, reminding Potter who exactly he's getting chummy with. Then they're right back to derision and insults, making it all too clear once again that Potter's only using Draco to punish himself, that on some level, Potter's purposefully goading Draco into fucking him hard and rough, as if he doesn't deserve to be touched with tenderness any more than Draco does. It shouldn't bother Draco to be used so callously, not when Draco's using Potter in turn, but it does. How despicable Draco must be to Potter that sex with him is a fitting outlet for Potter's own self-loathing.

Potter doesn't ever fuck him, despite Draco having presented him with several opportunities. He doesn't even like it when Draco blows him, much preferring to be the one taking Draco's cock however he can get it. Draco might be flattered if he didn't wonder if that too was just another manifestation of Potter's fucked-up form of flagellation. It makes him feel dirty—no easy feat considering the stain on his arm—wondering if one day things will go too far, if perhaps they already have. Potter seems to like what they get up to together well enough at the time—he always comes, at least. Draco's fairly certain he couldn't ever make Potter do something he truly didn't want to do, even if his motivations for wanting to do it are totally fucked.

The fireplace flares bright green, and Potter tumbles gracelessly out onto the hearth. He looks tired, the bags under his eyes dark and pronounced, his expression filled with a wild sort of desperation. Potter's eyes are hard and hopeless, and Draco hates that his heart still skips a beat when Potter meets his gaze. Even with all their differences and the animosity that underwrites their every interaction, Draco has the strangest urge to wrap Potter in a hug, to offer him a glass of whisky and try to relieve some of the burden that's clearly so heavy on Potter's shoulders. He ignores the uncomfortable desire, absolutely certain the gesture won't be welcome. Potter has friends he can go to for comfort and affection—all Draco's good for is a filthy fuck. 

"Malfoy," Potter says with a strange twitch of his head, as if he's torn between his clear dislike of Draco and some ingrained need to be polite.

"Potter," he responds, weary already. He closes his eyes and digs beneath the layer of exhaustion blanketing him, grabbing for the rage that's ever-simmering in his depths. He summons a mocking smile. 

Draco's not sure which one of them he's mocking. Probably both.

"Come on, then," he says before standing up and downing the rest of his second glass of whisky. It burns as it settles in his stomach, adding fuel to the flame of his endless resentment, his seething wrath. He turns his back on Potter and makes his way towards the bedroom, knowing Potter will be right behind him. 

"Let's get this over with."

* * *

Christmas Eve at the Burrow is a bloody nightmare.

Harry isn't really surprised, what with it being the first Christmas since the end of the war and all. There's an air of desperation and forced cheer to the festivities, the Weasleys all clearly grieving the loss of Fred and unable to bring themselves to so much as mention his name. George has hit the spiked punch hard, plonking himself down on the armchair in the corner and steadily drinking in silence, a dark glower on his face. Molly vacillates wildly between a near-manic jolliness and utter despair, frequently disappearing to 'check on the roast' only to return thirty minutes later with red-rimmed eyes and an even scarier smile. 

Ginny and Ron are equally subdued, though they seem to be handling their grief somewhat better than the others. Hermione's at her parent's house tonight and in her absence Ron's turned his attention onto Harry. He's overly solicitous, hovering around Harry like he's afraid _he'll_ be the one to have a breakdown over the roast potatoes and gravy. Harry forces himself to take a deep breath and tries not to snap, well aware that Ron's using Harry as a way to redirect his grief, focusing on Harry's supposed trauma to avoid dealing with his own. It's really fucking annoying though, and every time Ron asks him how he's doing, Harry's shoulders get a little bit tighter, tension knotting up his muscles.

It really doesn't help that Ginny has been looking steadily at him all night, her gaze heavy and questioning. He knows she's not entirely satisfied with how they left things, but he's not really sure what more there is to say. Harry can't give her want she needs, what she deserves. He's barely functioning as it is, and he's smart enough to know he doesn't have it in him to put any kind of energy into a relationship. 

He doesn't have anything left in him to give.

Ginny's so lovely and bright, but she belongs to Harry's old life, to that time when he was still capable of feeling like he deserves the kind of future she can give him. He remembers how he felt about her before, the giddy excitement of that first flush of love, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to muster that same emotion when he looks at her now. The feelings are faded and muted, much like Harry himself. Sometimes he wonders if he came back from that platform wrong somehow, if maybe bits of himself got messed up in translation, or if he left pieces of himself behind.

It would explain a lot.

The plan is for the lot of them to stay the night at the Burrow, but Harry can't do it. He'll play the dutiful adopted son and come over for brunch and presents in the morning, but right now he needs to get the fuck out of this house and the oppressive layer of grief and obligation that threatens to suffocate him. He makes his excuses to Molly and Arthur, claiming he doesn't sleep well these days if he's not in his own bed. It's only partially a lie; he doesn't sleep well _anywhere_. They let him go with teary hugs that make him feel more guilty than soothed, and he quickly escapes through the Floo, ignoring Ron's worried stare as green flames take him back home.

His body thrums with restless anxiety, and he manages to pace a full circuit of the lowest level of Grimmauld Place before he finds himself in the study. Pigwidgeon flutters about in excitement when he catches sight of Harry, and Harry attempts to grin at the bird, though he's fairly certain it comes out closer to a grimace. Ron will pop a blood vessel if he ever finds out _why_ Harry occasionally borrows his owl, but that doesn't stop Harry from penning a quick missive and attaching it to Pig's leg. He takes off with a chirpy hoot, and Harry resumes his pacing.

He makes his way up to his bedroom and briefly wonders if Malfoy will even come—it's late Christmas Eve after all, and Harry's certain Malfoy's spending the holidays with his bigoted parents. He quickly dismisses the worry. Malfoy will come.

He always comes.

Twenty minutes later Harry hears the whoosh of the Floo in the living room below, and anticipation slithers snake-like through his veins. Malfoy knows just where to find Harry, and his familiar form appears in the doorway to Harry's bedroom a moment later, the light from the hall haloing his body, casting his features in shadow. He looks dark and dangerous like this, and a pulse of desire jolts through Harry as Malfoy stalks closer to where Harry's sitting at the edge of the bed.

When he's close enough to touch, Harry reaches out to wind his fingers through Malfoy's silk shirt, crumpling the fine fabric as he tugs Malfoy down into a kiss. Their noses knock together uncomfortably, and Harry's glasses must dig painfully into Malfoy's cheek because he swears and rips them off, tossing them onto the side table with a clatter. He presses Harry back against the bed, his hard body a firm and delicious pressure all along Harry's own. Harry arches up into it, doing his best to encourage Malfoy to move faster, to take _more._ All day Harry's head has been spinning, filled with guilt and self-recrimination as images of all the people he's lost, all the people he couldn't save, flashed through his head. He's got an invitation on his chest of drawers from Andromeda inviting him over for Boxing Day tea that he's yet to respond to. Harry's still not sure how he can be expected to sip tea across from the child whose parents he couldn't save, how he's supposed to look into Andromeda's eyes when he's the reason she's a widow, the reason she had to bury her only child. He just wants to forget it all for a little while, wants to let Malfoy fuck the heavy responsibility right out of him.

He closes his eyes and focuses, and when he opens them again, he and Draco are both naked, their clothing Vanished. Malfoy pulls away from Harry's mouth with a growl, glaring down at him furiously.

"Did you just Vanish my clothes?"

"No," Harry says with a sly grin. "I Vanished _both_ of our clothes. Do keep up, Malfoy."

"You arsehole! That shirt cost more than we'll make in a year on that pitiable Auror salary."

"The colour was shit on you anyway. Washed you out," Harry says with an insouciant shrug. "Besides, you can afford it."

Malfoy lets out a primal growl of frustration before he's back to kissing Harry with renewed brutality, his mouth moving against Harry's so hard he's sure his lips will end up swollen and bruised. Harry feels the familiar shifting of energy that always accompanies magic, and a moment later a slick finger is circling his hole—Malfoy must have cast a wandless lubrication charm. 

As always, the preparation is perfunctory, Malfoy's finger pressing lube up inside him with quick efficiency, just enough to ease the way. Harry spreads his legs easily for it, clenching down around the finger and shivering at the intense twinge of discomfort that sings through him. He loves the physicality of these trysts with Malfoy, the way they ground him in his body, flooding him with both pleasure and pain. They always leave one another sore and bruised, and though Harry's forced to heal the obvious marks, he likes to keep the ones that can be hidden beneath his clothes for as long as he can get away with. Sometimes, during those moments when he finds himself longing for the peace of the platform, he'll dig his fingers into the bruises or pick at the scabs, the shock of it keeping him in the moment, allowing him to focus on his body's pain, instead of his mind's.

He expects to be turned over onto his stomach like usual, but apparently Malfoy's got other plans for tonight. Malfoy continues kissing Harry furiously as he lines himself up against Harry's arsehole and shoves inside with one jolting thrust. The familiar sting blazes through him, burning away anything that doesn't have to do with their harsh copulation. Harry's entire body shudders as he spreads his legs wider and slides his hands down to Malfoy's arse, digging his fingers into the cheeks as he encourages Malfoy to fuck him through the mattress. Malfoy seems more than willing to comply, grunting against Harry's mouth as he snaps his hips with vigor. Harry's lips twist into a hungry snarl as he claws at Malfoy's back and arse, his fingernails leaving raised welts in their wake as potent pleasure pierces through him with every spear of Malfoy's cock.

It's perfect, exactly what Harry needs, what he deserves, rough and brutish. There's no room for anything in Harry's head that isn't this, no room for the hopelessness or the helpless anger, the apathy or the aching sadness. All that exists is Malfoy, above him and inside him, holding him down and taking what he wants as the severe lines of his face twist with the same kind of complicated, agonising bliss that floods Harry's veins.

It's perfect, until it isn't.

Without warning, Malfoy's thrusts gentle, the punishing pace turning sensual, tender. One of Malfoy's hands comes up to cup the side of Harry's face as he softens their kiss, brushing his lips almost teasingly against Harry's own. The sudden change in atmosphere throws Harry, his brain and body unable to process the switch to something so different from anything they've ever done. Malfoy grinds into him, deep and slow, the head of his cock a steady pressure on Harry's prostate. He gasps and Malfoy's tongue slides silkily into his mouth, stroking over him with a seductive skill their previous graceless kisses have completely lacked. Harry's heart aches like he's been hit with a Blasting Hex, this strange softness too much for him to bear. It's too much, this leisurely love-making, and Harry's hands begin to shake before he digs them into the plush skin of Malfoy's arse.

"Fuck me, dammit," Harry snarls, doing his best to pull Malfoy into him. Malfoy resists, and no matter how hard Harry's arms strain to move him faster, Malfoy's hips maintain their steady rhythm.

The pleasure continues to build, overwhelming without the usual bite of pain to accompany it. Harry thrashes beneath Malfoy, begging him to stop messing around and fuck him properly. 

"Why are you doing this?" he gasps as Malfoy's lips slide down to kiss his neck, making Harry's skin erupt in goose-flesh. "I don't want this."

"Of course you do, Harry," Malfoy says. Harry doesn't think he's ever heard Malfoy sound so gentle before, and something about the kindness in his voice makes tears prick at the corners of Harry's eyes. "You just don't think you deserve it."

" _Fuck you,_ Malfoy," Harry cries, his body too full of pleasure to give the words the bite he wants them to have. 

"You could, you know," Malfoy says softly as he wraps a hand around Harry's cock and begins to stroke. "You could fuck me, if you wanted."

Harry comes with a heaving sob, his cock spilling in Malfoy's hand as Malfoy continues thrusting into him gently. His entire body feels flayed open, his chest a gaping wound, hemorrhaging raw emotion as Malfoy stills above him, finding his own release. Harry can barely focus on that, too busy shaking and crying, every feeling somehow heightened and so much more intense than anything he's experienced in months. His thoughts are all so jumbled up inside him that he barely knows which way is up, but what he does know is that he's _furious_ at Malfoy for doing this to him, for betraying him. Harry thought they had an agreement.

With a violent shove he pushes Malfoy off him, bitter satisfaction rushing through his veins at the flash of fear in Malfoy's eyes as he just barely manages to catch himself from falling on his arse. Harry's own arse throbs uncomfortably with Malfoy's sudden exit, but Harry relishes the discomfort—pain he can handle.

"What the fuck was that, Malfoy?" Harry spits as he pushes himself off the bed.

Malfoy glares at him. "It's been months, Potter. I would have thought you'd be familiar with the concept of fucking by now."

" _That_ wasn't fucking! That wasn't what we do!"

"Oh?" Malfoy says softly, a curious glint in his eyes. "What was it then?"

Harry splutters, flustered, as he storms over to his dresser to pull on a pair of pants—he's feeling exposed enough as it is without staying naked. "I thought we were on the same page about what this was." Harry scoffs bitterly. "I suppose it's my own fault being surprised at a Malfoy trying to change the terms of an agreement."

Malfoy's eyes narrow and the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. "Having an agreement would mean that we would have had to have actually spoken at some point," he says frostily. "I can hardly go back on my word when I've never given it."

"Oh don't play coy," Harry says with a derisive curl of his lip. "You know exactly what this is. I don't need to be coddled, and I certainly don't need your fucking pity." Harry already gets enough of that from everybody else in the wizarding world, he doesn't need it from Malfoy too.

Malfoy sneers. "Good, because you don't fucking have it! Get the fuck over yourself, Potter. I'm sorry if you can't handle vanilla sex without having a bloody emotional breakdown, but, as you so sweetly told me the first time we did this, not everything is actually about you. Some of us would like to have sex every once in awhile that doesn't leave both parties bruised and bloody afterwards." He looks pointedly down at his right thigh where blood has beaded along one of the long scratches Harry must have left there.

Harry's chest squeezes with something like guilt, but a wave of righteous anger floods it away. "Don't you fucking dare put this on me. You're just as messed-up as I am, and you haven't exactly been complaining about fucking me raw the past few months. I'm not your fucking boyfriend, Malfoy. If you want to fuck somebody on rose petals by candlelight, do it with somebody else." Harry can't be that, not for anybody, and certainly not for someone like Malfoy. Harry can admit that he's different than the boy he knew at Hogwarts, but it's barely been six months since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the war—nobody can change that much that quickly. 

Malfoy's lips twist bitterly as he saunters closer. Harry fights the embarrassing urge to flinch back from him as he reaches past Harry and grabs a pair of Harry's pants from the open drawer. "Don't worry, Potter," he says, his voice low and vibrating with suppressed anger. "I'm perfectly aware of what I am to you: a convenient outlet for your self-loathing." He pulls on the pants and Harry's blood burns.

"Oh, did I hurt your feelings?" Harry jeers, the feeling of exposure making him lash out and continue to prod at Malfoy's weak spots. "Is poor little Draco upset that the boy he spent years tormenting isn't secretly in love with him?"

Malfoy tosses him a look filled with pure, seething hatred, and something dark inside Harry glows with mean satisfaction. He still feels shaky and off-kilter, adrenaline flooding his system and leaving him standing on uneven ground. This is all Malfoy's fault. If he'd only fucked Harry like he was supposed to, then none of this would be happening, and Harry would be just _fine_. Now, all Harry wants is to make Malfoy feel as helpless and vulnerable as he does.

"Go to hell," Malfoy spits before turning around and storming for the bedroom door. He's only got on a pair of Harry's pants, but Harry supposes that's enough to get him home at least. Still, Harry's not content to just let him leave, doesn't want him to get the last word.

"Running away, Malfoy? I suppose that's—"

Malfoy throws open the door and both of them freeze when they catch sight of Ron and Hermione standing in the hall, their eyes wide as they look back and forth between Harry and Malfoy.

"Fucking _perfect,_ " Malfoy says venomously as Ron and Hermione continue gaping like goldfish. "I was just thinking about how there weren't enough self-righteous Gryffindors here at the moment."

"What the fuck is going on, Harry?" Ron says, looking about five seconds away from grabbing his wand and hexing Malfoy to bits.

"We were worried about you," Hermione says more softly. "Ron said you didn't want to stay the night at the Burrow. We came to check on you." She looks at his tear-streaked face and swollen eyes, her jaw hardening as she turns her fierce gaze to Malfoy. "What's _he_ doing here?"

"Yes, Potter?" Malfoy asks, his voice syrupy-sweet. "What _am_ I doing here? And clad only in a pair of your pants, too?" He turns his vicious gaze over to Hermione. "Maybe if the brightest witch of our age thinks _really_ hard, she can figure it out."

"You son-of-a—" Ron makes to launch himself at Malfoy, but Hermione pulls him back, her face twisted in disgust.

"He's not worth it, Ron. We're here for Harry." She turns to Harry, effectively dismissing Malfoy. "What's going on?"

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. How can he possibly explain?

Malfoy sighs heavily, his entire body tight with tension. "What's going on," he says flatly, "is that Potter is a bloody mess." He shakes his head and clenches his jaw as he meets Harry's gaze. "Keep punishing yourself if you want, Potter, but find somebody else to do it. I'm fucking done."

With that, he turns and disappears down the stairs at the end of the hallway, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to stare after him until the far-off whoosh of the Floo signals his exit. Malfoy's declaration felt so final, and Harry's not sure why the knowledge feels like a lead balloon in his stomach, weighing him down. He doesn't care about Malfoy. He was just a means to an end. His absence shouldn't leave Harry feeling even more lost than before, shouldn't make Harry feel like he's missed something, like something he wants desperately has just slipped through his fingers.

The silence in the hallway grows heavy as Ron and Hermione stare at Harry, fear and concern swimming in their eyes. Harry loves them so much it hurts, so much that a part of him hates them a little, too. There are nights when the platform seems to beckon for him, a seductive murmur convincing him that he can find that peace again, that it's just a simple spell away. And then he remembers Ron and Hermione's shouts of misery and despair when they saw his supposedly lifeless body in Hagrid's arms that night, and it stays his hand every time. Their love for him has saved him, again and again, but it's sometimes a burden. The love that keeps him here also keeps him from spilling his secrets, unable to bear the thought of their pity, terrified that the knowledge of how broken he is will irrevocably change their friendship. 

"Talk to us, Harry," Hermione pleads, her voice low and urgent. "You know you can tell us anything."

He has the strangest urge to laugh, hysteria lurking beneath the surface of his unstable thoughts. Harry knows Hermione loves him, that she believes her words to be true, but the fact of the matter is there are things Harry doesn't think he'll ever be able to share with them. They were so _happy_ when it turned out he hadn't died. How can he possibly tell them that sometimes he wishes he had? How can he share that sometimes he hates them for being able to move on with their lives after the war when he can barely function? That sometimes he wishes they would just let him go, sever the ties that bind Harry here so that he can fade away without guilt.

Even if he wants to try and explain it to Ron and Hermione, he's not sure he could. He doesn't know what he and Malfoy were doing, what they were playing at. The whole thing was so fucked-up, textbook unhealthy, but at least it was _theirs._ Their anger and pain, their fury and guilt. He's not sure Malfoy's a good person, and there are still times when Harry thinks there's nobody in the world he hates more than him, but there was a kinship there, too, a kind of synergy Harry doesn't know how to put into words. For all that they are patently different, Harry knows that somehow Malfoy _gets_ it. With Malfoy, there isn't any need to try and justify all the messed-up stuff going on in Harry's head—Malfoy understands. In all those furtive, post-fuck confessions, Malfoy never looked at him any differently, never once seemed shocked by even Harry's darkest admissions. He knew what Harry needed, and until tonight, he gave it to him. 

Harry shivers as he remembers the way Malfoy felt moving inside of him less than an hour before, the slow devastation of it, the way he touched Harry like he was something precious, and the strange tenderness in his eyes. It heats and cools Harry in equal measure, making his heart race and his stomach twist. That isn't what he signed up for. Harry's too fucked-up, too angry, to touch somebody delicately. He'll only grind them to dust in his hands… won't he?

"Harry, mate," Ron prompts when Harry stays silent too long. From the study down the hall, the clock chimes one.

"Don't worry about it," Harry says, his words and heart heavy as he stares listlessly down the hallway. "It's nothing," he lies. "Nothing at all."

**Author's Note:**

> [Kudos ♥] and [Comments] are fabulous! I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://gracerene09.tumblr.com/)!


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